


Reignite

by Kemmasandi



Series: Whispers Of A Well-Lit Way [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Consent Issues, Mechpreg, Other, Sexual Assault, Sticky Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack restored Optimus to Primacy, they’d thought the worst was over. But when the returning Prime brings an unexpected surprise with him, the careful balance of the Autobot war effort is thrown off course. Optimus faces the arduous task of carrying a newspark to term while carrying on the resistance against Megatron - his child’s sire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Reignite  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime [AU from the Orion Pax three-parter]  
>  **Characters:** Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Jack Darby, June Darby, the rest of the Team Prime ensemble  
>  **Pairings:** past Megatron/Optimus Prime [Orion Pax], Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Wheeljack/Smokescreen/Bulkhead, Agent Fowler/June Darby  
>  **Content Advisory:** Mechpreg, maaaaajor consent issues, sticky, sparksex, discussion of abortion, headcanons ahoy - tags to be added as they come up
> 
> I've wanted to write this fic since way back when I wrote Off-Shift. There are quite a few stories floating around the fandom wherein Optimus comes back from his sojourn on the Nemesis knocked up, but I have yet to find one that deals with the deeper moral implications of this. You may hate me by the end of it.
> 
> And, well. I only torture you ‘cause I love you, Optimus. Honest.

...

_crush my heart into embers_

_and i will reignite_

...

REIGNITE

The Nemesis is a lonely place to be.

The Archival Halls of his creation were such, and Orion Pax considers himself no stranger to loneliness. And yet, this is different: the dark, looming corridors and small, low-roofed rooms seem to swallow up their inhabitants, reminding him more of the shadowy alleys of the Pits of Kaon than the wide aisles and mazes of high shelves of his long-ago home. He's an Iaconian at spark, used to wide-open vistas and the sight of the horizon; the smallness of it makes him feel claustrophobic.

He spends most of his time shut away in his little records room, picking away at the small parts of the Iaconian Databases which Megatron has managed to recover. It is his duty, but it also provides an excuse to avoid the rest of the warship.

Even when he emerges late at night for his daily energon ration and a well-earned berth, it is rare for him to meet another living mech in the dimly lit corridors. At first he tries – if not to make friends, then at least to find the pulse of the crew, the ways in which the Decepticons go about their business. He wants to fit in, unused to the staring attention he gathers whenever he steps into a well-populated room.

He quickly finds that he is not welcome throughout most of the ship. His entry to the rec room on the first day casts a blanket of thick, awkward silence over the entire room. He collects his ration – thin, watery low-grade with a petroleum sheen over the surface – with stares drilling into his back. They are hostile, but wary.

Megatron had warned him that he was unlikely to make friends within the crew. Orion believes him, now.

He focuses his efforts upon the Databases, attempting to prove that he belongs here. To himself, as well as others.

It is a miracle that the Databases survive at all. Megatron had taken the ship down low over the ruins of the once-proud Imperial capital to show Orion what had become of his home, swooping past above burned-out hulks and the stumps of fallen towers. Destruction like no other, flash-burned onto the backs of his optics.

Orion gives thanks to Primus for that small shred of luck, and vows to safeguard what remains of the Databases with his life.

He recharges often, something in his strangely delicate and unfamiliar systems draining his energy. So much coding he doesn't remember, systems he can't even begin to decipher – had the Autobots performed experiments upon him while he was in stasis?

The thought is terrifying. He wakes to stiff hydraulics and crackling pains in his joints, sensor ghosts flickering on the edges of his processor.

Orion knows he can't afford to falter, no matter how miserable he feels. Megatronus – Megatron – is depending upon him.

He gathers his strength each morning, and sets himself to work.

:::::::

Megatron is very different to the gladiator he remembers; sharp-edged and jagged, as if he means to cut a path through the world through force of personality alone.

Relief swamps Orion's emotional cortex the first time the revolutionary invites himself into the third-floor officer's berthroom he'd set aside for Orion's use. Starved for friendly interaction, he spends the first couple of breems fighting off unnatural giggles.

Megatron's presence is powerful and intimidating, his intent plain. His red optics, so much more intense than the blue he had once worn outside of the gladiatorial arena, measure the length of Orion's stride and the faint sway of his hips. Hyperaware of his attention, Orion tries not to trip over his own pedes.

“I am very glad to have you back,” Megatron says. He puts his hands around Orion's waist, his field layering itself over Orion's in near proprietary satisfaction. “I missed you a great deal, my brother.”

Orion's neural net warms beneath his plating. His armour, warframe-thick, flares out without his prompting.

He draws in a quick vent, surprised at himself. “I can imagine that.”

Megatron's lips curl back from his sharpened dente. “You always did have a great deal of vision.”

He tugs Orion forward, pressing their frames together for a quick moment. Orion feels the pulse of his spark through the heavy press of his EM field, the vibrations of his sturdy power plant transmitting through his armour. He pushes a knee between Orion's legs and takes his weight in his own hands, guides him backwards, down onto the floor.

Heat and weight, bearing down on him. Surprise whirls through Orion's quartexes, but Megatron's advances are not unwelcome.

He parts his legs willingly and Megatron takes him by the knees, spreading them up and out, opening him. Warmth licks down the insides of his thighs, curling into a throbbing knot at his groin.

Orion smiles, reaching up for Megatron.

“It must have been a long time,” he says.

Megatron's hands sweep up his sides, dipping into the gaps between his ventral plating. He lowers his helm, kissing and nipping the cables of Orion's neck. Orion arches up against him, a groan escaping his vocaliser.

He turns and tips his helm back to give Megatron better access. The scrape of pointed dente over his main sensory track sends tingling bolts down into his belly.

Wetness gathers under his panel, his external components swelling with eagerness.

He amends his earlier statement. “A very long time.”

“Longer than you know,” Megatron rumbles into his neck.

The brush of his scarred lips drifts upward, he mouths the tip of Orion's audials, forces a servo beneath Orion's lower back to keep him sensually arched. The lust in his EM field reaches deep into Orion's frame, exciting his neural net and curling around the edge of his very spark. He adjusts his hips, and his spike pressurizes between them, rubbing against the smooth, tight plating of Orion's belly.

“I miss you,” Orion murmurs, sliding his hands between them. He strokes Megatron's spike from base to tip, the reverse-set barbs tickling his palms. Megatron shudders, thrusting into his hand.

“Is that so?” he says, smiling down at Orion. The subsonic rumbles of his engines transmit through their frames. “I can fix that, you know.”

Orion laughs, and clutches the stray threads of his sense, finding the codes to open his array. Megatron grabs his wrists, pulls his hands away, pinning them to the floor above his helm. His free hand grasps Orion waist, angling him, and his spike finds Orion's wet, swollen entrance. He pushes inside in one smooth, deep thrust.

It hurts. Orion had expected a little discomfort, was prepared for it, but this is worse.

He makes a ragged noise, halfway between a moan and a snarl.

Megatron is massive inside him, stretching him beyond his limits, splitting him open. Each throbbing pulse of electricity through him makes his overstressed calipers twitch, sharp pains in his muscle cable walls. Pain makes him tense; he struggles to relax, to accept Megatron the way he wants to, so very badly.

“Tight,” Megatron groans into his audial. “It's been a while for you, too.”

He starts to move, and it's too soon, too hard. The thump of their pelvic frames together makes Orion squirm and cry out.

“Megatron!” he manages, his voice small. “Give me a moment more!”

Warm vents puff over his forehelm.

“Of course,” Megatron rumbles. “My apologies.”

The ache eases. Orion concentrates on relaxing his internals, and gradually the sensation of Megatron's length inside him lessens. He'd prefer to wait a while longer, but Megatron is growing restless, and every small movement bleeds off more of his charge into Orion's receptive valve systems. It's intoxicating, frustrating, and he needs more, now.

“All right,” he says, lifting his pedes over the backs of Megatron's thighs to adjust the angle of penetration. “I'm ready.”

Megatron, for all his new impatience, fucks him gently at first. Long, slow gliding thrusts in and out, deep and strong, rolling his hips in to meet Orion's splayed frame and grinding his spike housings against Orion's stretched external components at the moment of peak connection. His charge nodes scrape over the sensory channels inside Orion, bursts of energy transmitting between their systems. His barbs catch on Orion's internal ridges, tickling the neural net into delighted spasms.

The persistent ache remains, discomfort goes to war with the warmth of willing arousal washing through Orion's frame, the slick slide of their components and the delighted expansion-contraction flutter of his loosening calipers. He'd once liked a little discomfort during interface, feeling that it made the pleasure all the sweeter, but this is not that.

It's conflicting. Orion is half-torn between the instinctive shying away from the burst of pain inside him at the peak of every thrust and the way it sharpens his senses, making him intimately aware of the mechanisms moving and the flow of Megatron's charge into him, intimate and invasive. He moans aloud, unsure which instinct to follow.

It – Megatron – becomes rougher. The world begins to darken around him; his spatial awareness recedes, leaving him only aware of the frame on top of him and the hard metal floor beneath him. He closes his optics and presses himself upwards; his throat works, his secondary vents opening up.  
He gasps and groans, tugging at Megatron's iron grip on his wrists.

It hurts, it hurts, but there's pleasure enough still that he doesn't want to call an end to it. He can't make sense of his linguistic centers anyway; the code trees he'd need to form the words shudder just beyond the reach of his mental fingertips.

Megatron's EM field wraps around Orion, confident and cocksure. He's huge, above him and inside him, his weight inescapable. It's hard to think, hard to do anything but give himself over to base coding and respond.

Megatron thrusts into him one last time and holds himself there, snarling. There's a flood of crackling, glorious energy into his receptive systems and Orion arches up into a sudden, sharp overload.

It's over far too soon, leaving him shaking and gasping. The fullness of Megatron inside him is suddenly too much. He tries to pull back and the movement releases transfluid from inside him, tracking down his aft and puddling on the floor beneath him.

“Megatron,” he groans, voice tailing off into a mechanical whirr. He resets his vocaliser, and tries again.

Megatron stirs above him, engine dropping down into a lower gear. Orion can suddenly hear the pings and ticks of their cooling frames, the shallow roaring of their ventilation systems sucking in cool air.

Megatron turns to him, lowering his helm. He mouths the tip of Orion's audial again, triggering warm throbs of tactile data flashing down the main data track at the side of his neck.

“What is it?” he asks, between teasing nibbles.

Orion opens his mouth, then stops.

“It is nothing,” he sighs.

Megatron chuckles deep in his throat, moving his attentions down Orion's neck. “Very well,” he says. And he stays inside Orion for a long time.

:::::::

Megatron always wants his valve. That isn't unusual, and it takes Orion a long time to connect the sudden preference to the growing sense of unease he feels around his lover.

They frag, again and again. Each time it is Megatron whom initiates the bout. Sometimes it feels so good that Orion thinks he might cry with the intensity. More often, it hurts. Orion keeps the pain a secret, ashamed to admit that with the size and strength of the frame he occupies now he cannot handle Megatron's proclivities.

Regardless, he's having some of the best overloads of his life. Sometimes he comes so hard he blacks out and wakes up whole joor later. (Alone, usually – and that hurts more than he wants to let on.) He walks to his records cubby with a limp for days afterwards.

The database absorbs his worries and pains, embracing him like an old friend.

He throws himself into his function, glad of the distraction. It's a relief to have something constructive to do.

Soundwave has looked after the data well, but it's plain he has no idea what to do with the archival ciphers and codes. That's only to be expected – his old function in the caste system, interception technician, demanded an entirely different set of skills.

Orion sends him a few tips, but handles most of the decoding himself.

The information contained is patchy, jumping from recent history to mythological references, molecular chemistry and theoretical astrophysics. Orion concentrates on the history, judging it the most likely to hold relevant information.

Over the quick cycle of the alien planet's days and nights, he reads through the translated files, gradually familiarising himself with the events of the early war.

After a few days, he comes to the conclusion that the Autobot version of events is lacking major details.

Try as he might, he can't seem to find any mention of the Warlord Ratchet. With his title or without. In fact, the older entries concern themselves with only the old Council and Senate. The Autobot faction as a whole don't seem to exist prior to a date almost a hundred vorn after the date of the High Council meeting that ended in tragedy – there is only 'loyalists' and 'Decepticons'.

Orion keeps looking. He's always liked mysteries.

Then, tucked away in the minutes of a Senate sitting, he discovers a mention of a mech named Optimus Prime.

Orion stands very still, and wonders.

The only Prime he knows of is Sentinel. He remembers that mech's death – the funerary procession had taken place mere orns before the point where his memories cut off. It had been a global holiday; Jazz had talked him into watching the Prime's body go past on its way to the nobility's catacombs.

Optimus Prime is therefore likely Sentinel's successor – but who is he? Where had he come from, and where is he now?

As he digs deeper into the database, he considers the fact that the existence of Optimus Prime might explain several baffling inconsistencies within the Decepticons' own shipboard database. For all that the Warlord Ratchet's name is followed by a string of shocking deeds – and Orion would never have thought his former friend capable of such things, not ever! – there seems to be no one primary decisionmaking figure within the Autobots. Or – and this was the really strange thing – that there had been such a mech, but that his name had, for whatever reason, been totally expunged from the records.

He shakes his helm and decides to put the mystery aside for a few days longer. Megatron had so much to worry about that was far more important than the ramblings of a simple archivist. Orion wouldn't trouble him until he had a clear conclusion.

Later, he would credit this small act of consideration with saving his life.

:::::::

Orion hears the engine noise first, his finely tuned audials picking up the faint buzzing beneath the infrasonic boom of the space bridge tearing a hole in space and time.

The little two-wheeler flies out of the gate, transforming and slamming pedes-first into Megatron's chest.

He must outweigh her by several tons, but her momentum is enough to knock him backwards a step. He trips over Orion's prone frame and goes crashing to the platform.

The little two-wheeler flips upright and leaps away, peppering Megatron with shots. He surges upright with a bellow of rage, throws himself into the new battle.

Breath sobbing through his mouth, Orion pushes himself to his hands and knees. Pain threatens to collapse him. His joints wobble and his EM field whirls, alight with grief and betrayal. Megatron is not what he'd thought.

His entire neural net aches as if he's gone under a foundry hammer. Megatron's punishment has been thorough. His armour is split and torn, energon bleeding out from broken lines beneath his plating. His protoform hurts, right down to the struts. He clutches one hand to his forehelm, feeling a deep dent next to his crest. His vision on that side is blurry with pressure.

The noise of the battle moves behind him. Megatron roars, enraged, as he tries to capture the agile little Autobot. Orion catches a glimpse of movement in the shadows at the rear of the cavern, sees Megatron lunge for it, killing sword outstretched.

He hangs his helm, guilt swallowing him alive. His fuel tank roils. How can the universe ever forgive him?

A sharp stressed keen escapes his vocaliser. He doesn't know what to think anymore, whom to trust.

The space bridge swirls again, spitting out another small form. Far smaller than the two-wheeler, covered in some sort of protective suit. Orion pings it with a hesitant scan.

Organic; the first he's ever seen. It is so small.

It is bipedal, like most Cybertronians. It has a rudimentary electromagnetic field, small flickers of electricity on a scale almost too weak to measure running through its compact little body. At first he thinks the screenlike covering at the front of its helm is one giant optic, uncomfortably reminiscent of empurata – but then it tilts its head up to look at him, and he sees through the plastic the tiny optics and mouth, the strangely intelligent regard in them.

It lifts a small item, as if to show him.

Orion refocuses his blurring optics, and gasps, recognising the shape. What is Vector Sigma's key doing on this alien planet?

He pushes himself upright, kneeling with his hands braced on his thighs. The Key of Vector Sigma, ancient repository of the wisdom of the Primes. The strange new systems inside him, the augments to his base coding, the locked memories, the exhaustion. Megatron's fury at his search for Optimus Prime.

He holds one hand to the wound at his side for a moment. It comes away streaked bright blue.

“Are you... certain I am worthy?”

He has to ask, desperate for confirmation.

The organic tilts its head, looking up at him with those intelligent little optics.

“You have no idea,” it says.

Light floods from the Key, bathing him in vibrant energy. Orion opends his chest and oh, Primus, he can feel something inside him drawing it in. The sensation of something massive and powerful floods his neural net, making him aware of his unfamiliar body in a way he's never been before. It chases away his pain and grief, buoys up his tired arms. He feels taller, stronger. Knowledge and purpose settle upon his shoulders. The memories come flooding back.

Megatron's blade descends, but this time, he is ready for it.

The battle mask snaps shut.


	2. Post-Restoration

Optimus Prime sat on the edge of the examination berth, under the high catwalk in the medbay, safely home in Autobot Outpost Omega One.

He held his hands tightly clasped in his lap. They shook, minutely.

His left abdominal port was open, his input cables plugged into an array of last-resort datapads. Ratchet sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

The old medic frowned down at the datapads occasionally, but it was an expression of concentration rather than disapproval. His field washed companionably against Optimus', and in it he could feel only relief and the steady beat of friendly affection.

Bumblebee sat on the floor beneath the edge of the berth, shoulder leaning into Optimus' knees. Rafael was in his lap, watching intently as Ratchet went through Optimus' code line by line. Their company was appreciated, more than he knew how to express.

Optimus fought back the urge to shift uncomfortably. He could feel Ratchet in his processor, flicking through his inner workings. Ratchet's medical protocols marked him as a beneficial presence, but Optimus' neurosecurity systems had picked up on his spark-deep unease and were up and growling.

Bulkhead, on his way across the silo, caught his optic for a moment and grinned. He lifted the hand that didn't have Miko in it, clenched and opened it palm-up in a Wrecker gesture of victory.

Optimus smiled despite himself.

It was easy to be proud of what his team had accomplished. Not simply that they had successfully executed the risky but brilliant plan to restore him to his memories and bring him back home – that they had kept going without him, each one fulfilling their roles to the best of their abilities, that they had fought on even when, to hear them speak of it, it seemed their cause must fail.

They had paid a price for it. Arcee could barely lift her arms above forty-five degrees; she held them loosely crossed in front of her, face relaxing into a pained grimace when she thought no-one was looking. Bumblebee had a partially dislocated shoulder, resting in a sling in lieu of immediate medical treatment. Bulkhead was covered in dents, and dragged his left leg when he walked.

Optimus tried not to feel guilty for occupying Ratchet's time thus. The medic himself had a shallow but nasty gouge down the side of his face, hastily dressed so that he could see the repairs he was making, and like everyone else a collection of his own dents.

He'd insisted on treating Optimus first. As the least injured, common sense demanded that they have at least one combatant battle-ready, in order to protect the others while they were repaired.

Ratchet had already rewired and welded the stab wound to Optimus' upper ventral plating, pulled out the dent in his forehead. All that remained was to make sure that his coding had not been compromised by his time in Decepticon hands.

Beside him, Ratchet frowned and drew the datapad closer to his face. Optimus worried for a moment that he'd found something, but his friend's field settled and bloomed relief a moment later.

Optimus attempted to settle himself in kind, but there was something missing. His spark danced in wary unease.

As proud as he was of his team's achievements, Optimus wished desperately that none of it had been necessary.

He shifted on the berth. Bumblebee glanced up at him with a querying chirp. Optimus replied with a reassuring push of his EM field, half-automatic.

The Terran date was August 9th. He'd lost more than six weeks in Megatron's hands.

What might Megatron have done to him over that time? What might – and this was almost worse than the first question – Optimus himself have given him carte blanche to do?

Optimus searched his memory core again in a fruitless attempt to find the answers. He'd tried this several times already that afternoon. All of the memory files that Orion Pax had saved were corrupted beyond comprehension.

He clenched his fists, frowning down at them. Guilt ate away at his emotional core.

It always came back to Megatron, didn't it? No matter what he did, how he tried to fight.

There was an ache in his spark, grief he'd never quite managed to deal with over the years.

Optimus Prime had never regretted making the choice he had at that long-ago High Council audience. At the same time, however, the price he'd paid for it had for a long time afterwards felt almost too high to bear. He'd loved Megatron, once. They'd made a powerful team.

Still did, if Unicron was any indication. Agent Fowler had informed him that the titan had been slumbering peacefully since they'd put him down.

Optimus drew up a memory file; Megatron grinning, extending a clawed hand. It was almost identical to a half-million year old file he had sitting in the back of his hard drives somewhere, but in this more modern file his once-lover's optics were ember-red, and the time stamp showed a date a little under seven weeks in the past.

He drew in a long vent and counted to seven, exhaling. Introspection was in his nature, but by Primus below, sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth.

“All right,” said Ratchet, dragging him back into the present. Detaching the cords from his datapads, he let them spool back into Optimus' frame. Optimus gratefully snapped his panel shut over them. “You're clean. Surprisingly so, but I'm most definitely not complaining. Go have yourself a wash while I deal with everyone else.”

“I can assist,” Optimus objected, standing. “Are you sure?”

Ratchet gave him a kind smile. :: _You're distracted_ :: he said over private comms. :: _Nobody can fault you for that, of course, but it would be better for you if you did something where you don't have to think about anything else for a while. Give yourself some time to process whatever's on your mind._ ::

Optimus stared at him for a moment, then lowered his helm in thanks. :: _I shall_ :: he replied. :: _Thank you_. ::

He bent to rest a fond servo on Bumblebee's shoulder before he rose. “Who will you see next?”

Ratchet too stood, heading for his workbench. “Send Arcee in, would you? I don't like the way she's holding her shoulders.”

“Where are you going?” Rafael asked from Bumblebee's lap. “Are you all right now?”

“I am, thank you,” said Optimus, and the boy's round face spread into a ready smile.

He was halfway across the silo by the time he realised he hadn't answered the second question _. Distracted indeed,_ he thought wryly, and continued.

* * *

Halfway along the washrack corridor, Optimus felt a sudden twinge of discomfort between his legs.

He stopped short in the middle of the hallway.

 _Please, no,_ he pleaded with himself, seeing Megatron's laughing face behind his closed optics. _Anything but that._

Optimus pushed himself into moving, through the rest of the hallway and into the base washracks. The movement aggravated whatever was damaged inside him; his valve twinged anew every time he took a step forward.

What had Megatron done during those six weeks? Him, apparently.

He shut the door, locking it, and turned on the spray on autopilot. It was not pure solvent; they hadn't been able to afford that when they'd first moved into Omega One. Instead, they'd left the water supply connected, installed a heater, and acquired several dozen gallons of various human-made automotive products. After a couple of weeks of trial and error, they'd added a few human towels – they were about the right size for washcloths, and softer on the finish than metalmesh. Optimus picked up one of the larger ones, and moved under the spray.

His neural net pulsed under his plating, crawling phantom touches prickling at his tactile centers. He rubbed his neck, digging his fingertips into the gaps between armour plating to give himself a sensation to concentrate on in the here and now. There was a roaring in his spark and a slow crawling tickle creeping up his thighs.

He had many, many memories of sharing Megatron's berth; most, but not all, from the time before he had Ascended. Logically, what was a few more? But none of them had ever made him feel like this, afraid and disgusted and _used._

The tickling touches reached his pelvic array. To his despair, he felt himself react to the imagined sensation.

Optimus leaned forward, bracing himself against the tiled wall. Water trickled down into his inner workings, a soothing warmth.

He retracted his panel, bringing a hand to his valve. The first probing touch stung. He hissed through his side vents, searching for the damage. Megatron had never exactly been gentle.

His fingers came away with flakes of silver clinging to them.

Optimus shuttered his optics and turned around. He stuck his hand into the spray and didn't reset his optics until he was sure that the transfluid remnants had to have been washed off.

How long ago had it been? This morning perhaps, yesterday or the day before at the latest.

He closed his optics again and Megatron's servos stroked across his plating, encircling his waist and dipping down between his legs. His valve tightened and throbbed, the external components swelling.

Hot water streamed down his plating, flowing under his armour and into his protoform.

“Primus,” he groaned. His fist thumped against the tiled wall.

He uncurled his fingers and buried his face in his hands. Guilt swamped him, the ache still throbbing inside him a betrayal, of himself, and everything and everyone he stood for.

He didn't know what he'd expected. Megatron quite clearly hadn't told him a thing.

Of course Orion, remembering only the happiness of their former relationship, would have accepted the resumption of their sex life without a question. Of course he, thinking Megatron still the fierce crusader for freedom he'd once been, would have trusted him. And of course Megatron, knowing the truth, would have fed him the same old assurances and lies to keep him agreeable, to keep him coming willingly to their berth.

Optimus didn't know why he'd hoped for anything else.

He adjusted the spray, and sank down to the floor of the washrack, resting his back against the wall. He vented a few times, shuffled forward until his lower body was under the spray. Gently, he washed his exposed valve.

It stung, but not badly. His damage simply indicated the sort of rough fragging that Megatron had always preferred, rather than forced intercourse.

 _Did that make it any better?_ he wondered. Megatron had made him dance like a puppet. Consent had to be not only freely given, but from a position of knowledge and understanding. Without that, it was nothing.

In all his years as Prime, he had never taken a lover. This had not been for lack of interest on anyone else's part; there had been mecha everywhere he went that for various reasons would have relished being taken to the Prime's berth. Towersmecha with political agendas, fame-seekers, believers eager to submit to the Prime's desires.

There was no religious obligation to refrain from interface in either of the belief systems which had influenced Optimus' beliefs, and he'd never found it personally distasteful, but the sense of responsibility and duty toward his fellow mecha which had descended upon him after his Ascension to the Primacy had all but cut him off from what few sexual proclivities he had previously possessed. Being the Prime put him automatically on a position of authority over others. This made appropriate consent a tricky business.

Optimus had found it easier, as the vorns passed, to simply avoid the question whatsoever.

He shut his array panel, grimaced as it pressed down on his bruised external mesh. He pushed himself to his pedes, and continued washed himself in silence.

* * *

Optimus returned to the main silo a cleaner mech.

Ratchet looked up from a datapad as he entered, and smiled. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” Optimus hedged.

He looked around as he crossed the floor. The silo was deserted, but for the glittery remnants of the impromptu Welcome Home party Miko and June had thrown. “You sent everyone to berth?”

“Only Bumblebee, but Arcee and Bulkhead likewise decided that it sounded an enticing prospect. The humans have gone home.”

A weight dropped from Optimus' shoulders that he hadn't even known was there.

He approached Ratchet's position, noting the tired stoop of the old medic's shoulders and the swelling beneath the microplating skin on the left side of his face. Ratchet too would probably benefit from a good long recharge, but with three warriors down, the two remaining were needed to stay awake and alert in case of Decepticon revenge.

Optimus lowered himself to the berth beside Ratchet, gratefully taking the weight off his pedes. “And you, old friend?”

“Catching up on some old work.” Ratchet waved the datapad in his general direction. “Everything got put on hold in the hopes of bringing you home. You'd have been proud of us; I don't think we've managed teamwork like that in months.”

“I am proud of you,” Optimus said. “All of you pushed yourselves far beyond the call of duty. I am lucky to lead you.”

Ratchet shot him a quick smile. “I won't say it wasn't hard, but we managed it. That's got to count for something.”

Optimus glanced at Ratchet, his optics narrowing at the painful scrape down his friend's face. Ratchet's left optic squinted down at the datapad from between aperture mechanisms pushed outward by fluid buildup underneath. The microplating skin was scored and torn from chin to cheek strut, the biggest tears slowly leaking oil- and nanite-laden fluid. He'd sealed them with viscous gel in an attempt to use his self-repair systems more efficiently; the cause of the swelling, Optimus guessed.

Shame curled though his spark. He held his field still through pure force of habit, though a large part of him cried out to be allowed to express it. He vented inward.

“Ratchet,” he said, and paused, searching for the words to continue.

Ratchet put the datapad down. “Yes?” he said.

“I... have reason to believe that I interfaced with Megatron while I was aboard the Nemesis.”

There. Now it was out in the open.

He tried not to look at Ratchet, but the urge was too strong. Ratchet's face was strangely slack, and Optimus had long ago become fluent in reading his friend's expressions but he could not decipher this one if his life had depended upon it. Disgust? Sympathy, fear?

He looked away, unable to bear the guilt.

“Those reasons being?” Ratchet asked after an uncomfortable moment.

“An ache, inside.” He didn't specify where, but given the topic it was unlikely he'd need to. “And I discovered remnant transfluid under my valve panel in the washracks. I do not have proof that it was Megatron specifically, but given our shared histories I can draw no other conclusion.”

Ratchet made an undecipherable noise. He stood, pulling out a drawer beneath his workbench with somewhat more force than necessary. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm and measured.

“What sort of an ache? Sharp or dull, continuous or throbbing?”

“Dull, but always present. It does pull when I walk about.”

“Hm.” Ratchet moved onto another drawer. “Sounds like a slipped caliper or two.” He stilled for a moment, then turned to face Optimus, bracing his servos against the workbench. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, and stared at Optimus.

His expression this time was plain – sympathetic helplessness.

“I should give you a pelvic exam,” he said. “Who knows what he could have left you with.”

Though he trusted Ratchet, the idea of his hands on that part of him made Optimus' neural net shudder. He already felt violated; the last thing he wanted was to bare himself and the evidence of that violation to another set of optics.

Even so, he knew that it would feel far worse to discover some other surprise of Megatron's later on, when he wasn't expecting it.

“Yes,” he said. “It would put my mind at ease.”

Unexpectedly, Ratchet asked for a second opinion. “You're sure? We don't have to do it now.”

“I'm certain,” Optimus insisted.

It wasn't entirely true; there was a large part of him that voted in favour of running back to his berthroom and attempting to forget the matter entirely. But he'd never allowed that part of himself to control his decisions, and he wasn't about to start now.

“All right,” said Ratchet, trusting him implicitly.

He strode to the silo wall and pulled out the folding screens that gave the medbay some measure of privacy for invasive procedures. “You know the drill. Lie back on the berth, legs apart.”

Optimus obeyed, shifting around until he found a position marginally more comfortable than the rest.

As he lay back, the phantom sensation of a heavy weight pressed down on his frame. His optics widened and his spark clenched in panic, his corrupted Orion Pax memories suddenly segueing into frightening clarity. He saw Megatron above him, felt the wash of hot exvents over his ventral armor, the clawed servos pulling his thighs apart.

The vision vanished in a split second, but still his spark whirled in fright.

Ratchet appeared in his field of vision, concern wreathing his features. “Are you all right, Optimus?”

Optimus grasped the edges of the berth, grounding himself. He went to say yes, but it came out somehow as a small, halting “No.”

Ratchet paused.

“All right,” he said. “Sit up.”

He sat on the edge of the berth, close enough that the edges of their EM fields mingled. “Like I said, we don't have to do this now.”

“I know,” Optimus said. He drew his knees together and folded his hands in his lap. “I did not want any more surprises of this nature.”

Ratchet nodded. “That's entirely understandable. What happened just then?”

“I said that my memories of my time without the Matrix were corrupted out of all legibility. Apparently, that is not true of all of them.”

“Oh,” said Ratchet. “That... sounds horrible.”

There was a long silence.

“I think it was consensual,” Optimus murmured. “I am looking, and there is no trace of... not wanting it.”

But Ratchet shook his helm. “You're allowed to call it what you want, of course, but would you have wanted it as you are now, knowing what you do?”

Optimus didn't even have to think about the answer. “No.”

Ratchet gave him a lopsided smile. “Does that make a difference to you?”

“I don't know,” Optimus said. He sighed, and shook his helm. “He is... If I could overlook everything that he has done, I might. Even after all this time.”

Ratchet shifted, opened his mouth, but the floodgates had opened and Optimus found himself continuing as if confessing to a crime, anguish and guilt forcing the words out. “Every time I have the chance to kill him, something inside me locks up, and I can't do it. I don't want to kill anyone! But I don't have nearly the reaction to anyone else that I do to him.”

He lowered his voice, and murmured, “I think I still love him.”

Admitting it cost him nearly every bit of willpower he had.

He stared down at his hands rather than look Ratchet in the optics. Heard the hum of their systems, the faint clank of movement from Ratchet, and finally a sigh.

“All right,” said Ratchet. “If that's true, Optimus, I'm not the person to make that judgement. I can't tell you anything except that Orion Pax wasn't capable of giving informed consent, and regardless of whether he wanted the kinkiest, wildest cybermonkey sex, Megatron shouldn't have given it to him.”

“I know,” Optimus said. “And it's me, Ratchet. Orion Pax and I are one person.”

Ratchet opened his mouth as if to argue, then visibly thought better of it. “Very well – he shouldn't have given it to you. So whatever you're feeling about it, even if you want to call it consensual, is valid.”

Optimus shifted on the berth, searching for a change of topic. The conversation was going in directions that, while not unexpected, were making his fuel tank constrict. Some things were easier not to think about.

“If it is a slipped caliper, how would you go about repairing it?”

Ratchet narrowed his optics, seeing through the distraction, but let it pass without comment. “You manually push it back into place, then gradually bring the valve up to full capacity until it clicks into line again. You might feel a little tender for a few hours afterward, but it's generally a permanent fix.”

He rose, crossing to the medbay bench. “First, we need to find out whether that is in fact the problem. Do you feel ready to try again?”

Optimus nodded, the gesture surer than he felt. “I want to get it over with.”

“That's understandable,” Ratchet said, flashing a small smile over his shoulder. “Tell me if you need to stop, or pause, or if I can do anything to make you more comfortable.”

Optimus flicked his field against Ratchet's in understanding, lay back, and offlined his optics rather than watch.

There was a metallic noise, and a glop of artificial lubricant. Ratchet's touches were gentle and clinical, and did not waste any time. His digits found the source of the ache, and Optimus hissed an exvent through his dente.

“I think it is a slipped caliper,” Ratchet observed. “You've also got a few shallow mesh tears and burned-out transfer nodes, which can't have helped the pain, but your self-repair will handle those better than I could. I'm going to use a balloon stent to push your components back into place. Tell me if you feel anything other than a minor cramp.”

Optimus pushed a wordless affirmative through his EM field, and Ratchet began, steadily narrating the process for his benefit.

He tried to focus on something other than Ratchet's hand on his hip, the cold metallic instrument being inserted into him, but the sensation and his own discomfort made it very hard to ignore. Then the stent began to expand, and that was even harder.

He bit his glossa, attempting to distract himself. The ache sharpened. Then there was a sudden snap of components inside him, and the pain vanished, leaving him with only the sensation of the expanding stent.

“I think it worked,” he said.

“No pain?” Ratchet asked.

Optimus nodded.

“Good.”

The stent deflated and was promptly withdrawn. Ratchet took the tool to the bench, began to clean it.

Optimus gratefully shut his panel and sat upright. He shifted his weight from side to side for a moment, concentrating on the feeling of his body under his own control, before he felt able to thank Ratchet.

“It's no problem,” Ratchet said, smiling at him. “I would like to give your receptive electrical systems a scan before you go back to normal duties, however. Long dry spells can result in minor glitches when they're given a workout, as it were.”

Optimus consented readily. The procedure was standard, far less invasive than that which he had just endured.

Ratchet's sudden, surprised “Oh,” was not what he expected.

He turned his helm, peering over Ratchet's shoulder. The readouts were beyond his understanding, electrical physics never having been his area of expertise. “What is it?”

Ratchet's expression went taut. “I need to scan your spark.”

Sudden fear grabbed at him. “Why?” Optimus asked. “For what?”

“Because this pattern of activity is far out of the ordinary and I'm afraid I already know why.” Ratchet lifted his optics to meet Optimus' gaze. His expression was slack with naked worry. “Please, Optimus.”

“I—yes,” Optimus capitulated. Ratchet ordinarily disguised his fear beneath a thin veneer of grumpiness. To see him without any hint of a scowl spoke volumes of the situation.

He triggered a transformation sequence ordinarily used only in front of a lover. His chestplates split apart, his protoform parted, and finally his core armor opened up. His spark chamber came to the front, bracketed by the Matrix. It opened up like the petals of a flower, vivid blue light throwing deep shadows throughout the medbay.

Ratchet lifted an ageworn handheld scanner and aimed it at Optimus' chest. Optimus felt the radiation wash over his exposed core. The results flashed up on the screen, and Ratchet stood staring at them for a long while.

“What is it?” Optimus said eventually, unable to handle the strain. “What is wrong with me?”

Ratchet slowly shook his helm. “Nothing's _wrong,_ from a medical perspective.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then looked up at Optimus with a helpless expression on his face. “You're carrying.”

“Carrying?” Optimus repeated. The word floated blankly in front of his processors, meaningless. “How?”

Ratchet made a face. “The usual way, I'd presume.”

_Carrying._

The concept sank beneath his surface processors and suddenly his head was filled with screaming. He hunched his shoulders and grabbed his audials, gasping through his vents.

“I can't,” he said, denying it with his whole being. “I can't be.”

Ratchet approached, bracing himself against the conflicted storm of Optimus' field. He'd lost control over it – the first time in countless vorn.

“Optimus,” he said, pitching his voice low and calm, “you are. Look at me, come on, look up.” He reached the berth and placed his hands over Optimus'. “It's all right. Look at me.”

Optimus did not obey. How could he? He'd let Megatron frag him and now he was carrying the nightmare's own ore inside him.

“Get it out of me,” he said, his voice cracking on an anguished moan. The hypocrisy ate him alive, but he couldn't comprehend the strength it would take to do otherwise. “Please, I can't—I don't want it, I can't have it, please!”

He felt like he was going to purge. His throat tightened, his tanks roiling dangerously. Once upon a time he would have thought this the best thing ever to happen to him. Now he felt close to destruction.

“I can't,” said Ratchet.

Finally Optimus lifted his helm, staring at him with wide optics. “What—why?”

Ratchet helplessly shook his helm. “I don't have the equipment or the skills to try a termination. I'd stand a good chance of killing you as well, and we can't risk that, none of us.”

Optimus looked him in the optics and saw the truth staring back out at him.

“I can't do it,” he repeated, the only sure thing he knew. “Megatron, he...” He trailed off, unable to fit his thoughts into words.

Ratchet snarled audibly at the mention of the Warlord. “I wouldn't put it past him to have done this deliberately,” he growled.

Optimus felt another wave of guilt crash over his shoulders. The possibility was very real – what else had this proven that he had never wanted to believe his once-brother capable of? - but it hurt to think of. Betrayal gnawed at his spark with sharpened teeth.

He shuttered his optics and pressed his knuckles against his aching helm. The largest part of him wanted to wail and cry, but he _could not_ let himself show it.

He gathered together the frayed shreds of his composure and leant for a moment upon Ratchet's sturdy shoulders.

“Please excuse me. I... find myself in need of a rest.”

Ratchet, Primus bless his spark, did not object. “It's fine, Optimus. I'll comm you if there's an emergency.”

Optimus nodded silently, trusting him. He rose, and fled the medbay.

\+ + +

Seven weeks. That was four orns, at best. How young must it be?

Optimus woke feeling crawling touches fondling him beneath his armour.

He threw himself into the darkness in a half-dreaming effort to escape, and the edge of his berth dropped out from underneath him. He crashed to the floor with a thunderous din of ringing metal, bringing the nearest Autobot – Bulkhead – running.

He hauled himself up off the floor as Bulkhead's heavy footsteps skidded to a halt outside his berthroom door.

“You okay in there, boss?”

Optimus rubbed the corners of his optics. “I am fine, Bulkhead. Simply a disturbing recharge flux.”

“All right, no worries.” But Bulkhead was still there when he opened the door, and fell into step beside him as he headed to the main silo.

It was around five in the morning, and the atmosphere inside the base was a little chillier than usual. Ratchet was sitting on the medbay berth, almost exactly where Optimus had left him last night.

He glanced up at them, mumbling a halfsparked greeting. “Good morning.”

Bulkhead made a beeline for the rations cupboard. “Morning, Ratch. Let in a bit of the Arctic overnight, didja?”

“What?” Ratchet blinked at the datapad in his hands, then looked up at Optimus' approach. “How are you feeling?”

Optimus sat gingerly beside him.

“You truly cannot perform a termination?” he asked in the lowest murmur he could manage, tracking Bulkhead's progress across the floor.

Ratchet sighed. “Truly. Not this early in the cycle, anyway. It's all to do with sparks and symbiotic quantum bonds. They're difficult and the mortality rate is high even with the best facilities and equipment.”

Optimus grasped at the one thread of hope he could find. “What about later in the cycle?”

Ratchet was quiet for a moment. “It's within my ability,” he said eventually. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I don't _want_ to do anything,” said Optimus, clasping his servos in his lap and staring down at them. “This is merely the best option of a horrific lot.”

“I see.” Ratchet made a small nonverbal noise, then turned to him and pressed his hand against Optimus' shoulder.

“Whatever you end up doing, whether you change your mind or stick to this, I'll support you. You have my word, Optimus.”

Optimus bit back a grieving hiccup, covering his mouth with his knuckles. _Control, control,_ he thought, forcing his spark to slow and his fans to even out.

“Thank you, old friend,” he said once he felt able to. “Thank you.”

Ratchet patted his shoulder, smiling.

Bulkhead arrived then, with all three morning rations. Optimus took his gratefully, and invited the Wrecker to sit with them.

For once, the size of his, bigger than the others', did not even cross his mind.


	3. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret is out, and Optimus comes face to face with Megatron for the first time since regaining his memories.

Days passed, and turned into weeks. The atmosphere within Omega One returned to something almost normal.

Optimus had been leading the Autobot war effort for so long now that the routine was engraved into the depths of his processor. Paperwork, diplomacy, supplies acquisition, running interference for his subordinates' frequent disregard for the particulars of human traffic law; there was a normalcy about it all that provided him with a much-needed sense of groundedness. His base coding told him that as long as he could do it, then he wasn't doing too badly.

Whatever he did, he could not forget the newspark. It had quickly begun to make its presence known, triggering physical and mental symptoms until Optimus' upper-level processor spun with the effort of keeping up.

His spark swelled within days of his return, reaching a peak two weeks after at which it felt as though it was attempting to burst right out of its chamber. It gave him a peculiar sort of energy and motivation to act, and he found himself having to restrain his movements even more so than he ordinarily would, particularly when the humans were around.

Soon afterward, his fuel consumption rate increased. When he did not ask for the extra energon his systems were demanding, he began to feel nauseous and shaky. He hid the symptoms from his subordinates for a further three weeks, up until Arcee found him cleaning up his own regurgitated rations from the washrack floor and went to tell Ratchet behind his back.

Ratchet skimmed the top off his own already meager rations and glared at Optimus until he drank it. “You have to stay in good condition,” he insisted, pushing the cube into Optimus' hands and crossing his arms so that Optimus couldn't hand it back. “You're the only warrior we've got who is a match for Megatron, but you won't be for much longer if you keep denying yourself what you slagging well need.”

The extra energon did help; Optimus' nausea faded, as did the shivering.

Physical symptoms, though, were far from the worst. As the newspark grew, it activated long-dormant protocols and programs within Optimus' coding, changing his very mindscape overnight.

Self-analysis routines intertwined his perception of the sparklet within his perception of himself, tying its presence into his own self-worth. He could no longer separate it from himself, and so it became a constant thorn in his side, its mere presence a physical manifestation of his guilt and shame.

Monitoring protocols kept him constantly on the lookout for potential sources of danger. Social interpretation programs began to reorganise his subordinates from a military unit into a facsimile of a cadre. His interface protocols were constantly in a semi-active state; as little as a cool breeze brushing the inside of his thigh could have them spinning up into full arousal.

He had to outlast this. Had to last until the newspark emerged from within his own, and traveled down into his gestational chamber, at which time Ratchet could safely perform a... a...

He couldn't even think the word. Grief and hypocrisy tore at his spark; fury at his own inability to make the hard decisions.

It was the carrying protocols, prioritising the newspark's survival above all else. Optimus quickly grew to hate them.

Eighty-six weeks. That was how much longer he had to survive. It became a refrain, equal parts hope and despair. He clung to it, balancing his duties and difficulties atop its steady foundation. Just eighty-six more weeks to go.

By eighty-three weeks, Optimus' delicate balancing act was beginning to wobble.

That Saturday, as he did every week, he onlined early and presented himself in the medbay for a private medical exam. Ratchet checked his fuel conversion rate, his mineral consumption, electrical output values and everything else he needed to keep track of the newspark's progress.

Frame construction had begun sometime within the last week; there was a large spike in the amount of minerals being leached from Optimus' protomass. Ratchet took a mass biopsy from his armpit and wrote down the results in Optimus' records.

“We'll check your levels again next week, and depending on the results we'll get you started on a nutrient supplement,” said the medic. “I can't prevent the transfer of elements to the sparkling, so all I can do is resupply you with whatever it takes.”

He disconnected the scanner from Optimus' medical ports. “Physical troubles aside, how are you feeling?”

“Not well,” Optimus admitted.

Ratchet gave him a sympathetic frown. “Anything I can help with?”

Optimus shook his helm. “I don't believe so. Merely personal stresses, brought to a head by my current situation.”

“Pregnancy has a tendency to do that,” said Ratchet. He sat down on the berth beside Optimus, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “If there's anything I, or the rest of us, can do to ease your burden, don't be afraid to ask. We're here to work together.”

“You already do so much,” Optimus argued. “You especially, old friend. I can't conscience putting more responsibility upon you when you already work yourself so hard to look after us.”

But Ratchet was unmoved. “Then I'll delegate the physical work to Bumblebee, or Arcee. Bulkhead could probably do with things to occupy himself with while he recuperates, as well. You have a tendency to take the world on your shoulders to spare others the weight, but put together we have a greater strength than you on your own. You need to remember that, now more than ever.”

Optimus rested his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his thumbs over his optical shutters. “I recognise that, from an intellectual perspective. It is much harder to make myself believe it in my spark.”

Ratchet was silent for a while. He stroked Optimus' shoulder, the action soothing, as he searched for something to say.

The command room's alarms barked out a warning, klaxon ringing out.

Optimus' autonomics took him to his pedes and out into the silo, Ratchet on his heels.

He found the warning monitor, scanned the alert for details. “Decepticon activity in southern Siberia, well into the Altai region. A large incursion, perhaps an energon mine.”

Ratchet typed the coordinates into the satellite feed and zoomed in on a river valley a couple of hundred miles from the Mongolian border. “I count at least five squads of Vehicons, and emissions typical of ships of the _Nemesis'_ class. Eradicons patrolling en masse in a five-hundred mile radius.”

Arcee came racing out into the silo just ahead of Bumblebee and the convalescent Bulkhead. “What's the situation?”

Optimus relayed the information to his team. “Autobots, we are going to investigate only. Arcee and Bumblebee will map the site; do not engage the enemy unless it is inavoidable. They are at full strength and the risk of capture is high if you are discovered.”

Arcee and Bumblebee nodded.

Optimus continued. “Bulkhead, you and I will provide a distraction elsewhere. Do not push yourself – if you find your wounds getting the better of you, comm Ratchet for a ground bridge immediately. Is that clear?”

Bulkhead saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Ratchet moved to the ground bridge and opened the gate. The heavy throb of the quantum generators filled the room.

:: _You'd better be careful as well, Optimus_ :: he sent over internal comms. :: _A miscarriage at this stage could be catastrophic_. ::

Optimus acknowledged the caution with a dip of his helm. His battle protocols fired up; the mask snapped shut over his mouth. He advanced on the bridge, automatically taking pole position.

“Autobots, roll out!”

The ground bridge spat them out onto the lower slopes of a narrow river valley. Snowcapped mountains rose thousands of feet into the atmosphere around the horizons. Dry grass crackled under foot; the sky was summer-blue, and the air was cool and clear.

Down on the fluvial plain, dark shapes clustered around a bare rock face. A low thrumming echoed from the mountaintops at a pitch too low for any human to hear.

Optimus scanned the gentle slope for a vantage point. The sound of the _Nemesis'_ engines reverberated through his struts, ominous and distracting.

Bulkhead approached from his left. “Arcee and Bee are heading across the river from the south,” he reported. “Ratch says the closest humans are miles away.”

“Then we will approach from the north,” Optimus decided. He transformed his ion cannon out of his left arm and charged it, ready for action. “After you, Bulkhead.”

Bulkhead's EM field lifted in good humour. “Let's go give some 'Cons a bad day.”

They made their way down the flank of the mountain without incident, and set off across the flat fluvial plain.

The river, fed by snowmelt, flowed strongly even in the depth of summer, and had begun to carve a shallow canyon into the alluvium. Optimus kept watch as Bulkhead made his way through, then splashed across to join him.

They ran into a patrol of Vehicons on the other side.

The Decepticons looked surprised to see them, but reacted with commendable speed. Optimus downed two with well-aimed shots and dove forward until he was within hand-to-hand range – his own, at any rate. Bulkhead kept the more distant Vehicons pinned down with a steady barrage of fire until Optimus moved outward to pick them off.

They moved onward, closer to the cliff, but the ruckus had attracted other platoons patrolling within the area. Bulkhead put his back to the rock face and held his ground, while Optimus moved out to challenge the approaching Vehicons directly.

Jet engines screamed through the valley. Megatron transformed and dropped to the ground mechanometers in front of Optimus.

The warlord straightened, grinned at him. “It's been a while, Optimus Prime.”

Optimus slid his pedes further apart to better brace himself, refusing to rise to the bait. “Megatron.”

Megatron took a step forward, two steps. “I trust you have been well since you left us?”

“Perfectly fine,” Optimus lied. He tried not to grit his dente; to give into the anger would only distract him. “Although your hospitality left a lot to be desired.”

“Oh, did it?” said Megatron, arching his optical ridges. “You certainly seemed to enjoy it at the time.”

Optimus stayed silent, tracking the movements of Megatron's optics and EM field.

The warlord slowly circled left, onto Optimus' cannon side. Optimus raised his arm and aimed; Megatron stopped dead, a smirk lifting the corners of his scarred mouth.

“Surely you remember, dear Optimus? Or Orion, perhaps I should say; I lost track of all the times you slipped and called me 'Megatronus' during the heat of the moment. It was most invigorating.”

Optimus' entire body stiffened. He forced his muscle cables to relax, and fired a round at Megatron to clear the howling in higher thought queues.

Megatron didn't so much as dodge the shot, and it went wide anyway. “Oh, you aren't fond of the idea? I must say, Optimus, that is a terrible waste. You certainly have not lost your talent for being utterly captivating.”

He charged in, cannon glowing. Optimus fired again, three times, and blocked the downward swing of his blade with the barrel of the gun. He transformed his own sword out of his right servo and stabbed forward and down, hoping to catch Megatron under his guard. Megatron stepped away, deceptively light on his pedes, and returned to circling Optimus, a predator moving in for the kill.

He continued, as if nothing had interrupted. “I am glad to know that the Senate did not strip you entirely of your appreciation for more, hmm, carnal pleasures. Once the Decepticon win the war, I shall certainly reserve them for you.”

“You will not,” growled Optimus. “I will oppose you to my last moment.”

Megatron stepped closer, enough that the excited weight of his EM field licked sensually against Optimus'. The sensation was enough to trigger Optimus' hyperactive interface protocols. He bit his glossa until it bled oil in an effort to forestall his frame's natural reactions, but it was futile. His neural net warmed, his ventilator fans quickening; beneath his armour, his valve began to slicken.  
  
Optimus held his EM field under iron control. A moment, and a flicker of disappointment spread through Megatron's in reply.

“Oh, I hardly think I need your permission, brother.” Megatron moved forward; Optimus retreated. “You'll forget your inhibitions surely enough, as you did before. I will see you writhing beneath me again, begging for me to fill you, quickly enough.”

Optimus felt himself begin to shake – rage, or fear; he did not know. “You are no brother of mine,” he spat. “I will never allow myself to think of you as such again.”

“It seems I have struck a sore point,” Megatron observed with an almost gleeful lilt of his rough, gravely voice. He circled inward, kept coming, forcing Optimus to retreat further. “Can't handle your own unholy lust? Or is it shame, that you had to come back to me to be satisfied? You liked it, Optimus. You were so wet I could almost have drunk from you, and you lay there on your back and begged me to when I shared such observations aloud.”

It occurred to Optimus that Megatron could have been making it up entirely, but he couldn't find the strength to ignore the words. He kept going backwards, retreating ahead of Megatron' steady approach, until his back hit solid rock and he could go no further.

Megatron grinned, satisfied. “You wanted me to do what I did, deep down. You wanted me to hold you down against the floor, to force your legs open, to do what none of your oh-so-loyal Autobot pets could. You liked it, Optimus. You screamed my name when I filled you up so much you couldn't walk afterwards; you prayed, and you said my name instead of Primus'. Let me tell you right now: I am absolutely happy to grant the wishes of a supplicant who makes me such a pleasant request.”

Optimus raised his cannon and fired blindly, again, again, until the mechanisms smoked and the safeguard went off and Megatron emerged out of the haze and grabbed him by the barrel of the gun. He brought up his blade, Megatron blocked the haphazard strike and grabbed the blade at the base where it was bluntest with his bare servo.

Taken off balance, Optimus stumbled forward. Megatron yanked both his arms to the left, turning him and shoving his frame up against the cliff, arms wrenched behind his back and held tightly in one clawed servo.

Megatron's weight jammed him against the rock face. His free hand wandered, around Optimus' side, ghosted over his belly in a mockery of tender paternalism.

“Oh, are you hurt?” he asked. Hot exvents washed over the back of Optimus' neck. “Do tell me if I have hurt you, Optimus; I would hate to damage the carrier of my child.”

Cold horror washed through Optimus' emotional protocols. “How did you know?” he gasped.

Megatron's engine revved in a pleased growl. Shame wrenched through Optimus' spark at the heat it kindled low in his pelvic frame.

“I didn't. How nice of you to confirm it for me.”

Optimus slackened his frame, gasping against the cliff face. He gathered his scattered senses as Megatron's servo dipped lower, determinedly not reacting to the deliberate assault, and sent the rest of Team Prime a mayday ping.

“You did this to me on purpose?” he snarled, slamming shut his interface protocols' repeated requests to open his array panels.

Megatron's claws skittered over the seam of his valve panel. Underneath the protective barrier, Optimus' components swelled in anticipation. He prayed that Megatron could not feel the wetness dripping from him. The last thing the warlord needed was that sort of encouragement.

“Hardly,” Megatron said languidly. His fingers pressed hard against the panel, and Optimus breathed Primus' name, hoping futilely that the god would lend him the strength to survive this. “Or rather, I was not so much intending for you to kindle as wondering if the stimulation would be sufficient for you and your marvellously generative spark.”

“I'm not going to keep it,” Optimus managed to choke out. “As soon as it separates I'm going to terminate it.”

“Oh, you are?” Megatron's voice raised in amusement. “You, Optimus Prime, 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings', are going to abort your own child? That hardly sounds fair.”

“I have my own right to autonomy,” whispered Optimus, “and I am not going to bring a child into this world knowing that it was conceived in rape.”

“Rape?” repeated Megatron, and suddenly his field flashed with temper. He snarled, shoving Optimus into the rock face. “You wanted me! You sat there on the berth and smiled at me and said yes when I asked! You dare call that rape?”

“Consent gained by deception is no consent at all,” Optimus said. “Yes, I do dare, because it is. No amount of temper can change that, Megatron.”

Hate slammed around him, the murderous intent in Megatron's EM field almost enough to bring back his nausea. He braced himself for a killing blow.

Instead, someone called his name. A bolt of plasma buried itself in the rock by his shoulder, and Megatron bellowed with pain.

The warlord's grip on his wrists had loosened with each traded barb. Optimus kicked backwards and threw Megatron off of him, turned and struck outward with his sword.

The blade glanced off Megatron's side vents, but the force pushed him backwards a step. Optimus advanced, raised his cannon, and shot Megatron in the face.  
“Optimus!” called Arcee over the noise of battle. “Over here!”

She covered him as he ran to join her, a ground bridge gate spinning up behind her shoulder.

Megatron's laugh followed them into the vortex. “Look after my heir, Optimus! You'll find your path is not so easy as you think!”

There was a moment of blessed silence inside the ground bridge. The quantum mechanics that made instant transmission possible were noisy from the outside, but something inside the gate itself stole sound away. Optimus relished the brief moment of relief.

Arcee rounded on him moments out of the bridge. “What the slag was that?”

“Exactly what you heard,” he said. A hard lump forced its way up his intakes, and he fought his own gag reflex.

“'Look after my heir',” Arcee quoted. “Either he's finally gone off the deep end of the tar pit, or there's something big you're not telling us.”

Bulkhead murmured something to Bumblebee, who gave a series of strident beeps. _“What happened?”_

Optimus caught himself looking for a way out, tossed his helm in rare temper when he found none. Battle protocols dulled emotional responses when active, but now that his were fading, the full shock of Megatron's assault began to hit him. A deluge of delayed fear, rage and disgust swamped his emotional cortexes; bile rose in his intake tubes and he was shaking so hard he could almost hear the rattling of his own armour.

Ratchet emerged from the medbay. “What's going on?”

Optimus sent him a brief comm. :: _Megatron caught me. Arcee arrived in time to overhear the end of it._ ::

Ratchet's optics went wide and he rounded on Optimus, voice high with horror. “He didn't...?”

A full-strength medical scan prickled Optimus' neural net. Belatedly Optimus realised the implications of his statement.

“I am not injured. Megatron simply took it upon himself to taunt me.”

“He didn't do – what?” Arcee planted her servos on her hips and stared. “When I got there he had his hands all over Optimus. What did he mean, 'his heir'?”

Optimus gritted his dente. His jaws were beginning to ache, and the pressure reached up behind his optical mechanisms, making his sensory suite throb. Too much, too soon. He swallowed down his nausea, hands going automatically to his abdomen.

Ratchet commed him. :: _I can handle this if you'd prefer to rest._ ::

:: _No._ :: Optimus clenched his fists. :: _It had to come out sooner or later. I need to be here for it._ ::

The old medic subsided gently. :: _All right. But if it looks like you're getting too stressed, I will step in._ ::

Optimus nodded. :: _I am grateful, old friend._ ::

He waited a moment before stepping forward into the middle of the silo floor, the best place in the room from which to speak and considered how to begin.

He knew that among the crew of the old Ark, there had been persistent rumours that the relationship between himself and Megatron had been sexual. Bumblebee, once attached to the Ark's Special Operations team, probably knew enough to put the facts together without much effort on Optimus' part.

Arcee and Bulkhead, he was not sure of. They might guess – and to judge from the thunderous expressions crackling through their EM fields, probably already had.

He raised a hand and swiped his knuckles across his mouth, searching for the words.

“Before I Ascended to the Primacy, Megatron and I were friends and partners. And, occasionally, lovers.” He searched their faces for shock, disgust, anything. “When I was stripped of my memories by releasing the Matrix's energies, I reverted to that belief. Megatron evidently failed to disabuse me of the notion.”

There went the horror, in at least one face. Bulkhead hid it well, averting his optics. “I thought you didn't remember anything from then?”

“I do not,” said Optimus. “This is conjecture, gathered from physical evidence and Megatron's reaction to me today, but I don't believe it to be in error.”

Bumblebee beeped stridently. _“That's low. That's so, so low.”_

Arcee's optics narrowed to slits. “You're not carrying. You can't be. You need a spark merge for that, and that would have shown you Megatron's true nature.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “Actually, it's not strictly necessary. An overload intense enough can still generate the catalytic reaction which forms a newspark. And Optimus' spark is O-Spectra; he's naturally inclined toward high generativity.”

A fresh wave of shame battered at Optimus' tanks. He vented slowly, shuttering his optics.

“I am carrying,” he confirmed, testing every word before he spoke it. “According to Ratchet it is approximately fifteen weeks old.”

There was a long silence.

 _“What can you do about it?”_ asked Bumblebee. There was no judgement in his optics, nothing but warm practicality. _“Anything?”_

The words stung his mouth. “I have no choice but to carry it, at least until separation. After that it will be safe to attempt a termination.”

Arcee and Bulkhead looked to Ratchet for confirmation.

“Safer than it would be now, though not quite what I'd call perfectly safe,” the old medic clarified. “Still, if that's what you want when that time comes, Optimus, I'll do it for you.”

Rather than speak, Optimus nodded his acknowledgement.

Neither Arcee nor Bulkhead would meet his optics. The Wrecker was looking everywhere but at him, while Arcee frowned at a spot somewhere past his knee as if she could burn a hole in it just by glaring.

He wanted to ask if they were all right, but the words wouldn't come. He stared helplessly at the silo door for a moment, then dismissed them. Standing awkwardly in a circle would help no-one.

Ratchet rested a hand against his forearm. :: _Are you all right?_ ::

:: _I have certainly had better days_ :: Optimus said. :: _None of the others were hurt?_ ::

“Arcee got tossed over a cliff but apparently broke her fall on a low-flying Eradicon,” Ratchet reported. “No injuries beyond a few scratches. And your windshield looks a little worse for wear.”

“Megatron held me up against a cliff for a while. Nothing more, thank Primus.” Ratchet didn't need to know how heavy the touching had become. It was enough that Optimus could still feel the phantom sensation of Megatron's hands on his abdominal and pelvic plating. “Is anyone in the washracks?”

Ratchet checked the monitors. “Doesn't look like it.”

Optimus exvented. “I may use them myself.”

“Want me to run interference? In case Bumblebee runs into a puddle on patrol again?”

“It would be appreciated, thank you.”

Ratchet gave him a tired smile. “Let them think it through on their own for a while. They'll process it, and then if they need to know more they can find the words to ask for it themselves. It's not your responsibility to think about things for them.”

Optimus returned the smile, but it felt watery and weak even to him. “Thank you, old friend.”

He left the silo, hoping that he wouldn't run into anyone else on the way. Fortunately, the corridor to the washracks was deserted, and when he closed the door and activated the lock he felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did want to try and get this chapter up to 5K words, but then I realised that I had a pretty good scene structure as it was and I didn't want to go overboard with it. :B 
> 
> This fic's Megatron is _definitely_ hanging out down in Challenger Deep.


End file.
